Sharp Edges
by CanaanAlshea
Summary: Set In Modern Day. InuYasha Knew That Sesshoumaru Would Give Into The Dark Thoughts. It Would Never Be Easy To Fix.


_Title: Sharp Edges _  
_Author: CanaanAlshea _  
_Pairing: InuYasha/Sesshoumaru _  
_Summary: Set In Modern Day. InuYasha Knew That Sesshoumaru Would Give Into The Dark Thoughts. It Would Never Be Easy To Fix._  
_POV: Inuyasha_

The shards of the mirror shot my reflection back at me, bits of light catching off the sharp edges and making rainbows against the wall. Had it not been so macabre, one could have called it pretty. I closed the door quietly behind me, the sharp scent of his blood making me nauseated and cold. I sighed, set my briefcase down, slung my tie over the doorknob.

It was going to be another long night.

I found him curled up under the covers, our bedroom a complete wreck as he was prone to make it during these attacks. He shuddered as I kicked clothes out of the way, deciding to wait before putting the dresser back together. A large triangle of glass lay on the nightstand, the jagged edge an ugly red. I sat gently on the bed next to him, stroking the long locks of hair sticking out from beneath reddened sheets. "You gonna come out?" "...No," his voice was hoarse; I wondered if he had been screaming again and found myself inappropriately grateful that we lived in the countryside, without neighbors. Without witnesses. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, waiting for him to come out on his own, to be able to face me.

He did after a few agonizingly silent moments. Slowly he slid the covers off, revealing his nude form, dozens of marks standing angry and red against his pale skin. I tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, stroked the blue crescent that graced his brow.

"Rough day?" I whispered. He smiled through the tears forming in his eyes, shaking his head and sitting up, cringing as he opened wounds.

A particularly deep one caught my eye; it bled sluggishly, an open mouthed gash on the back of his forearm, going from elbow to wrist. This was one of the first wounds, when the glass was at its sharpest and before the emotions had completely overwhelmed him. The more he panicked, the messier the cuts.

"I'm sorry," he looked down at his arm, biting his lip and curling long legs to his chest, wrapping himself in a thin fleece blanket. "Hey," I said softly, cupping my hand at the back of his head to force his eyes to meet mine, "It's alright. I get it. I wish you wouldn't...but I get it." He sighed shakily, kissing my neck and cheek, wincing as he laid his head on my lap, grappling blindly for my hand. I gave it to him, laced our fingers together.

The clock ticked in the dining room.

"What set it off tonight?" I whispered, rubbing the back of his hand with my thumb, tracing the veins there. 'I hope we still have bandages...'

He gave a careless half shrug, reaching into my pocket for a cigarette and lighting it, exhaling blue smoke with shaking breath.

"...Did he call?"

Sesshoumaru snorted, "Of course he did. Had to remind me that I failed him, you know..." His father, whom I'd never met and didn't particularly wish to, had a disgusting habit of snaking in and out of my husbands life, leaving messages and letters. Today was his late mothers birthday, and the bastard liked to ask Sesshoumaru if he remembered her. If he remembered being the cause of her death, as he was so fond of putting it. The woman who I had seen in photographs, who looked so much like my 'Maru, had died when their home was robbed, taking a bullet to the neck after pushing her son, little six year old Sesshoumaru, into a closet and telling the men to take what they wanted. And they did, shooting her on the way out in a display of drug-fueled power. Taisho had come home to find his wife in a pool of congealing blood and his son, wide eyed and numb, beneath his mothers dresses hanging off their hooks.

"Why didn't you fucking do something?!" his dad had screamed, for the first time striking his own son out of anger. And it began a vicious cycle of broken bones, black eyes and gashes that continued until Sesshoumaru left ten years later.

Bastard had the nerve to send emails and cards to his son, and when he drank too much he called the house. Last month had been a random display of rage through our answering machine-I found Sesshoumaru shaking at the kitchen table, his coffee cup shattered on the floor. The fear came off him in waves as though the man were standing right there in our kitchen, screaming in his face as he had done so many times in his childhood.

"It was my fault," Sesshoumaru whispered, biting his lip as a tear rolled from the corner of his eye to drop onto my leg, "I knew it was him...I shouldn't have answered the damn phone. I should have hung up when I heard how slurred his speech was...but I couldn't. It was like I was a fucking child again and all I could do was stand there with the phone to my ear agreeing with every stupid thing he said to me. And then he just...hung up. He called me a failure, a piece of shit, he wishes I were dead...and then, click. Dial tone. ...My own father wishes to attend my funeral."

I jumped as he put the cigarette, red and hissing, out on his own thigh. "Fucking hell!" I grabbed his hands and knocked the ashtray over in my hopeless attempt to stop him. "Stop it, Sesshoumaru! It's not your fault okay? It's not..." I sobbed, resting my forehead against his, looking deeply into the gold eyes that matched my own, earlier so eerily empty but now full of despair. "It's never been your fault. Taisho's a fucking piece of trash and if you'd let me I would have kicked his ass a long time ago for what he did and still does but...damn it. Stop listening. Don't let his anger and bitterness ruin you like this...!"

He sighed, kissing my eyelids and wiping the tears away. "Don't be sad, love," he whispered, "It will heal." Scars stood out, some red and angry, others thin white lines you had to be in the light to see. Some were rust-colored circles from cigarettes. Most of them were on his thighs; he told me four years ago that it was too much trouble concealing his arms when he was at the office, editing books in a poorly air conditoned office. Instead of stopping, he'd simply switched locations.

I sighed, kissed his lips and tried to smile, "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

When the bleeding stopped we sat in the large tub together, our white hair curling together at the surface of the water. I sat with my head against his chest, relaxing in the heat as his long nails traced slow patterns on my shoulders and biceps. Occasionally my eyes would wander to his long legs, snapping back to the ceiling as I tried to pretend the gashes weren't there. My husband wasn't covered in dozens of fresh wounds, self inflicted from a sense of loss and panic. We weren't going to have to clean up the house, sweep up bloody glass and replace the mirror that had once hung on the bathroom wall. I tried to pretend that everything was okay because acknowledging it was getting too complicated.

"Hey," I whispered, resting my chin on his shoulder and kissing the pulse in his neck, "There's supposed to be a meteor shower tonight...wanna go see?" He smiled softly, "Sure. That sounds nice."

We stepped around the disaster in bare feet and bathrobes, going to the backyard through lush grass to the hammock he'd put up last year. We laid side by side, our legs tangled together under a blanket, his head tucked under my chin and my hands resting comfortably on the small of his back. A bright light shot across the black sky and I felt his lips curl against my neck, "Look," he whispered, "Make a wish."

We rocked slowly as the sky blew up with shooting stars, some of them a bright blue. I saw the reflection of them in his eyes as I leaned in, brushing white bangs off his forehead and kissing the moon that graced his brow.

"I love you," I murmered, "Forever."

"Always," he whispered back, kissing the hollow of my throat and sighing deeply, black lashes fluttering against my skin.

There would be tears and blood and breakdowns, stupid fights that, when we looked back on them, we couldn't remember what had started it. But moreso, there would be happiness. There would be the sound of his laughter as we told stupid jokes, the smell of hay in his hair after running through the fields. There would be sunrises that turned the sky blood red and pale pink, sending rays of light to grace my husbands sleeping form, reflecting of his pale hair.

There would always be a second chance.


End file.
